


An Unromantic Love Story

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Canon Compliant Universe [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, How They Met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about falling in love, of a sort. Of friendship, of finding one another, or learning surprising things about one another. This is how they met, but more how they knit together. Porthos shoots a lot of things (and people, sometimes by accident), tells loud stories, is a bit of pain in the bum to everyone. Athos drinks, learns to love people, enjoys a good sword fight. Aramis is kind, remembers to pray, works on building friendships. d'Artagnan does eventually turn up, and learns all the little things they never tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. IN WHICH PORTHOS BECOMES A MUSKETEER, MEETS ATHOS, AND DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF (or in which Monsieur de Treville almost comes to regret a decision)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think there are any warnings or content notes, but if any of you pick up on something that needs one, please let me know and I'll gladly add it.

 

Treville picks his way through the company of soldiers, trying to spot Monsieur Dessessart. The man just won a skirmish North of the city, and now seems intent on taking over the drinking establishments of Paris. The public house is rowdy, the noise level high enough to make Treville wince. He takes another step, looking towards the shadowy tables set against the walls, and someone grabs him.

 

He reacts instinctively, twisting out of the grip, but he's stopped short as a lead-ball goes whistling over his head, taking his hat off. A great cheer goes up, and Treville spins, following the course of the ball, which is now embedded in the wall behind the remains of some sort of melon that's shattered across the table. He turns the other way, and is faced with a swaying, grinning, behemoth of a man, wearing the uniform of Dessessart's company.

 

“Treville,” Dessessart's voice comes from behind him. “I see you have discovered Porthos.”

 

“That is Porthos?” Treville asks, turning to his brother-in-law, pointing to the monster with the smoking gun. “He just all but shot me!”

 

“Your hat, Monsieur,” another guard says, beaming.

 

Treville takes his hat and the guard moves on, joining the gathering crowd around Porthos. Treville examines the hole.

 

“He ruined my hat,” Treville says.

 

“Yes, he has rather a habit of shooting things. I can't seem to get him to stop,” Dessessart says, sounding not at all put out about it. “He shot rabbits, enemy soldiers, trees and fires pretty indiscriminatingly, while patrolling.”

 

“Fires?” Treville asks, a little weakly.

 

“Yes, quite. He threw a casket of ale into the fire of a pack of bandits, then shot it. The whole thing exploded,” Dessessart says.

 

“It was _beau'iful_ ,” a deep, joyful voice says, at Treville's back.

 

Treville spins again, and comes face to face with the grinning Porthos. Treville gathers his composure around himself and tucks his hat under his arm, holding out a hand to Porthos.

 

“Porthos Du Valon, I believe?” Treville says.

 

“I am he,” Porthos says, “he is me. Monsieur has the advantage of us both. He and me.”

 

“Treville. Captain Treville. Of the Musketeers,” Treville says.

 

“You'll be familiar with my ball, then,” Porthos says, “and I feel easier in apologising for your hat. I did not realise there was goin' to be a wanderin' musketeer in my shot. It did make for rather better fare, though. A hat AND a melon! I shall be swimmin' in wine, and not on my own coin.”

 

“Your apology is accepted,” Treville says, ignoring the rest.

 

Porthos beams at him, then turns and roars wordlessly at the crowd (which roars back), wading through the men towards the inn keeper, calling for more wine. Treville turns back to Dessessart.

 

“He is quite something,” Treville says.

 

“Come, let us talk somewhere quieter. You said in your letter that you wanted to speak to me of him.”

 

Dessessart guides Treville through to a back room, and the noise dissipates and softens as the door closes behind them. They take seats at a table and Treville is pleased to see there is wine laid on, and food. He tucks in heartily, talking between bites.

 

“I have heard good things about Porthos,” he says. “I've heard many things about him, actually. I saw him fight, recently, when some of your people came to the aid of my men against the red guards, in the Rue de Vaugirard. He fights well. The short of it is, I want him as a musketeer.”

 

“The king approves?”

 

“The king... is aware of Porthos, and will approve in time.”

 

“You want to put it to Porthos? I would be sad to lose him, he's a good soldier and the men like him.”

 

“I want to put it to Porthos.”

 

Dessessart sighs throughout their meal, but then he calls Porthos to the room and sighs no more, only puts in a good word now and then, to encourage Treville in advancing Porthos with the king. Porthos, soaked in wine and very cheerful, laughs uproariously at the idea of becoming a musketeer, to begin with. When he realises Treville is serious, he goes quiet and still, face wary.

 

“His majesty's decision will be in our favour,” Treville assures. “You have distinguished yourself highly in this latest, as well as all previous, skirmishes.”

 

It's brighter, in this small room, and Porthos's face is clearer. Treville can again see the traces of his old friend in Porthos. He had noticed, when he saw the man fight, the similarity, but he had been at a distance. Now he can see Porthos's face and he's sure. He remembers the woman, has never got her eyes out of his head, pleading for her son. He sees her clearly marked in Porthos, too.

 

“If his majesty does not see fit to make me a musketeer, I will have no position,” Porthos says.

 

“If his majesty doesn't see fit,” Dessessart puts in, “I will take you back into my company.”

 

Porthos nods, slowly, still looking wary. He looks at Treville, and Treville meets his eyes.

 

“Why?” Porthos asks.

 

“Because you fight well, and you have the reputation of a gentleman, and you impressed me. And,” Treville adds, smiling, “because you shot my hat off, and missed my head.”

 

Porthos grins, sharply and fiercely.

 

“I was aimin' for the melon, but I am glad my ball didn't do that to your head. It would be a shame for me to have missed this golden opportunity, wouldn't it?”

 

Treville gets to his feet and shakes Porthos by the hand, then shakes Dessessart by the hand, and then has Porthos swear to make himself known at the garrison the very next morning.

 

It takes Treville three days to gently talk the king around to believing promoting Porthos to the musketeers was his own idea. By that time, Porthos has already made himself right at home; he has instigated three fights in the training yard, and come out best in all three; he has been challenged six times, and come out best in four; he has drunk Monsieur Amyot under the table, a feat previously thought impossible; he has won two months' pay from Monsieur Beaulac. Treville finds him, that evening, playing cards with Athos.

 

“Porthos,” Treville says. “You are to report to the Louvre tomorrow morning, to receive your promotion.”

 

Porthos roars for more wine, swinging a big arm into the air. Athos catches the arm and twists, fingers sliding a handful of cards from their hiding place. Porthos grins.

 

“Where'd they come from, then?” Porthos says.

 

“I wonder,” Athos says, dryly.

 

Treville leans against the wall to watch. Athos is drunk, dunker than usual, but he's still the best man in the army with a blade. Athos, though, doesn't challenge Porthos. He drops the cards on the table and starts to walk away.

 

“Aw, come now,” Porthos says. “What about our game? I've got celebrating to do, I need to win the means to do it with!”

 

Athos keeps walking. Treville is disappointed, but not surprised. So far, Athos seems to have made it his goal to drink Paris dry, and avoids other duties diligently. He avoids anything that necessitates the expenditure of effort, too. Treville hasn't seen him with Porthos previously, so there's nothing to keep Athos there- no friendship or othewise. Porthos scrapes back his chair and lumbers after Athos, a look of mischievous intent on his face. Trevilla pauses him with a hand raised.

 

“What?” Porthos asks, wide-eyed with innocence. “Just making sure he gets home.”

 

“If he kills you, I will not pay for your funeral, nor will I count your promotion. You will die a soldier of the ranks,” Treville says, easily.

 

Porthos nods in understanding and keeps his way. Treville follows to watch. Athos ignores Porthos for a street and a half, but finally Porthos insults Athos's honour, calling him a coward, and Athos draws his blade. Porthos laughs happily, and Treville watches the following bout with interest. Athos is fine with a blade, but Porthos has more than a few dirty tricks up his sleeve. Treville feels them an equal match.

 

They begin by circling one another, Athos's blade dragging in the dust, marking the circle. Porthos makes the first move, lunging, and then there's a rapid flurry of blows, before they circle each other once more. This continues until Porthos puts his boot to Athos's knee, at which point Athos loses his patience and makes a quick attack, backing Porthos up the street, blade flashing in the gas light.

 

Porthos laughs, flinging dust and dirt into Athos's face and running at him, head down. They go flying, Porthos landing with a roll. Athos makes it to his feet first, though, and there's another quick exchange of sword thrusts. Then Athos steps lightly in under Porthos's great reach and draws blood from his forearm, darting back.

 

“I liked this shirt,” Porthos says.

 

They move quickly, feet dancing down the street, Porthos laughing and Athos silent. They draw apart, but Athos moves in again before they've backed off entirely, disarms Porthos with a skilful twist, and has him on the floor with a dirty trip. Athos puts his blade to Porthos's throat, panting, still silent. Porthos goes limp, laughing again.

 

“You have me,” Porthos says, splayed in the street like on a bed, perfectly relaxed. “Now what? Will you cut my throat?”

 

“No,” Athos says, sheathing his blade.

 

He turns on his heel and again walks away. Porthos rolls to his feet, gathers his sword and bids the captain goodnight with a touch to his hat before walking off with a jaunty whistle. Treville shakes his head and makes his own way home.

 

Porthos, to Treville's irritation, takes a liking to Athos. It's irritating for three connected reasons. First, Athos doesn't particularly return the liking. Second, this lack of requitement means he doesn't pay much attention to Porthos. Third, Porthos likes attention, and gets it any way he can, which means he fights Athos. Often. Treville finds himself stepping over Porthos more than once, and he stops asking how he ended up flat on his back. Athos comes to Treville's office after two weeks of this, taking a seat without waiting for invitation.

 

“I am requesting a mission,” Athos says. “Any mission outside Paris. Please. I am begging you.”

 

Treville considers. Just this morning his majesty asked for an urgent letter to be delivered. He can do without Athos here, as Athos does his duty on guard but little else. He considers Porthos. Then he smiles, as a possible solution to his Porthos problem presents itself.

 

“Very well,” he says. “I need this letter delivered to Corbeil, and as it is both urgent and the king's business, I want to send a musketeer.”

 

Athos takes the letter and rises to go, bowing politely. Treville waits until he's at the door before adding his caveat.

 

“Oh, and take Porthos. He hasn't yet been on a mission for the musketeers. We must break him in,” Treville says, lightly.

 

He keeps his eyes on his paperwork, pretending not to notice the heavy resentment of Athos. Athos stands for long minutes, not leaving, still, but Treville pretends to believe Athos has left. Eventually, Athos does, banging down the steps. Treville smiles. At least three days of quiet.

 

Three days turns into four, and then five, and then a week has passed and Porthos and Athos still haven't returned. Treville is on the brink of sending more men after them, when the clatter of horses in the courtyard brings him out of his office to the balcony. There's only one horse. Porthos is leading it. Athos is laid cross-ways over the saddle. Porthos raises a weary head to Treville, then sinks to his knees. Treville hurries down the steps, checking Athos first. He finds a pulse, so he orders men to carry him to a room and call for a doctor. Then he goes to Porthos, who struggles back to his feet.

 

“We were ambushed,” Porthos says.

 

His voice is rough, and he stops to cough, his big frame rattled by the effort.

 

“Did you accomplish the mission?” Treville asks.

 

“Yes. Bandits. Wen' the long way round,” Porthos grins. “I took m'time ge'in' to Corbeil, figured they'd think we were dead. Hid in a fores' a bi'. 'e fell in the Sein, got sick.”

 

“Are you injured?”

 

“Tired an' sick, but not 'urt,” Porthos says, “Athos 'ad a ball in 'is side. I took it out, it's infected.”

 

“Very well. I'll see that he's taken care of, you go rest.”

 

Porthos nods and takes a few wavering steps, then leans into one of the upright supports, coughing again. Treville ducks under Porthos's arm, taking some of the considerable weight across his shoulders, and helps him to his rooms. Porthos falls face first into bed and waves Treville away. Treville leaves him to rest and goes to check on Athos.

 

It takes a day for Porthos to recover enough to remember that he has a reply for the king. He reports to Treville with particulars of the men they were attacked by at the same time. Treville decides they were common bandits, who, recognising the musketeers' insignia, had hoped to gain something of value. Porthos stays in bed the rest of the week. Athos's case is more grave, but he too recovers. Treville hopes that the journey will have instilled some camaraderie in the two men, and he'll get some peace.

 

He gets the camaraderie, but not the peace. Now he simply has Porthos _and_ Athos making trouble. It turns out that Athos's quiet, grave nature is complimented perfectly by Porthos's brash one, and that together they get into more trouble with the red guards than the rest of the garrison put together. Every week Treville is going to the king with another story of Athos's wounded honour, or Porthos's wounded pride, or Athos and Porthos being wounded together by the guards' treatment of some other person's honour or pride.

 

“You two must stop,” Treville roars, when they come back, bedraggled but victorious, from yet another duel. “I have used up all my good will with his majesty, and the Cardinal is starting to fatten on the proceeds of my lowering place in his majesty's good graces!”

 

“Sir,” Athos says, removing his hat and bowing, “six of Monsieur de la Tremouille's men were duelling with one from Monsieur Dessessart's company. We felt the odds were rather unfair.”

 

“Is this true? It was six against one?” Treville asks Porthos.

 

Porthos nods, silent for once.

 

“One of the men knocked Porthos's tooth out,” Athos explains.

 

Porthos nods and keeps his mouth firmly shut. Treville thinks from pain, but then he remembers it's Porthos and presumes, instead, that it's from vanity. Porthos's vanity is a strange beast, and rears it's head for things that seem small, while disregarding larger faults. His hair, for example, is carefully kept. His jacket, and his uniform, however, seem to be more highly held the worse the state they're in. He wears his scars with pride, but hides injuries to his hands. He keeps his nails short and beautiful, but calluses his hands with extra sword practice. His teeth, he is proud of.

 

Treville gets the details from Athos and runs to the Louvre to put it to the king, hoping he'll get there before the Cardinal. This time he does, and his men are commended while Monsieur de la Tremouille bears the brunt of the bad temper over the fight. A week later, Porthos is showing off a tooth sculpted from, if he is to be believed (which he is probably not), the tooth of a wolf he killed himself.

 

 


	2. IN WHICH PORTHOS AND ATHOS CONTINUE TO CAUSE TROUBLE, GET INTO SOME REAL TROUBLE, AND MEET ARAMIS (or: in which Athos has a slow but thorough revelation)

Athos is busy. He's busy drinking as much of the wine in this tavern as is humanly possible. He's busy ignoring Porthos, who is, in his turn, busy. Porthos is busy rousing the entire room into a drunken, roaring mob ready to be stripped of as much money as they can lose in cards. Before playing cards, however, Porthos is telling stories in the hopes someone will buy him more wine. So far it's gone well- he's had three flagons pressed on him, which he has graciously shared with Athos. The people think, it seems, that the more Porthos drinks the more entertaining he'll be. Porthos has, Athos knows, carefully built up this idea in as many minds as he is able. 

“An' then,” Porthos is saying. “And then...”

Porthos sways, then sits heavily on the table Athos is drinking at. Athos, used to such theatrics, saves his wine from Porthos's bulk and drinks steadily onwards towards oblivion. Porthos seems to have forgotten the rest of the story. He starts muttering to Athos, something about the state of Athos's hair. 

“What happened then?” Someone roars. 

“Then!” Porthos roars back, remembering his audience. “Athos here skewered it, an' we ate it.”

There's silence as the room digests that. Porthos has clearly got lost, somewhere. Unless he really meant to tell the story of how he single handedly won over an entire court of ladies by having Athos skewer and eat the king's portrait. Porthos nods significantly around, and the story's accepted with a cheer. Clearly the audience has got a little lost somewhere, too. It's easy to do with Porthos's stories. 

“Athos,” Porthos says, falling from the table into a chair beside Athos. “I am too drunk to play cards.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. 

Porthos is drunker than Athos has ever seen him, which is saying something. His pistol has long since been confiscated, so he's not shooting anything, which is a Good Thing. He already tried to shoot off Amyot's hat while re-telling the story of his first meeting with the captain. Amyot is nursing a bleeding ear. Porthos has also had several blades confiscated, and his hat. Who knew a hat could be such a lethal weapon? Athos takes another pull from his wine bottle. 

“Athos,” Porthos says. “I am taking a walk.”

Athos rises and follows Porthos out to the street, only pausing to collect Porthos's belongings from Monsieur Houle, who had taken them for safe keeping. He follows Porthos easily, the other lurching and stumbling. Porthos heads deeper into Paris, into smaller and smaller streets, into darker and dimmer parts of the town, eventually washing up at a tavern on the edge of the Court of Miracles. Athos covers his musketeers' uniform and hides his hat under his cloak before seating himself in a dim corner and carrying on drinking, keeping an eye on Porthos. 

Porthos doesn't do much. He sits at a table and drinks slowly, examining his surroundings. He talks briefly to a man with a scarred face. He drinks. Then, after nearly an hour, he gets up and stumbles his way over to Athos's table, collapsing into the other chair. 

“I was born 'ere,” Porthos says, gesturing wildly. “Today's m'birthday. Not really, dunno when 'at is. Use t'fight 'lot. Al'ays fight. Then, th'army. Now, this.”

Athos works out that Porthos is trying to tell Athos his life story. Athos inclines his head to show he's listening, and Porthos mumbles on, incoherent. Athos had known Porthos wasn't from the nobility, but he's a little shocked that he grew up in the Court of Miracles. So few leave it, once they've fallen that far, and those born into that life... well. Athos looks at Porthos, to see if he finds any new respect for the man. He feels, to his surprise, a burst of fondness, instead. 

He gets to his feet and helps Porthos rise also, leading him out into the night air. 

“Come,” Athos says. “let's get you home. Next year, you will tell me beforehand that we are celebrating your birthday, and I will provide a quarter of the wine.”

“On'y quartrr?” Porthos asks, trailing off into a wordless growl. 

“You drink far too much for my purse,” Athos says. 

Porthos laughs, and walks into a wall. Athos steers him straight once more. It takes them longer to reach the garrison than it should, but Porthos is upright and swaggering, rather than rolling, when they arrive. It had been touch and go, but the air sobered him up just enough to see them home. Athos goes to his own rooms, guiding Porthos with him. He dumps Porthos on the bed, strips him of his boots, then joins him. He hasn't shared a bed since Thomas and he were small, but he imagines Porthos, with his endless hugging and tussling and physical affection, will appreciate it. 

“'preciate the company,” Porthos rumbles, early the next morning, before falling off the bed and dunking his head in the water barrel. 

Athos watches as he comes up gasping, shaking his shaggy head, sending water droplets across the room. 

“There was ice on that,” Athos comments. 

“You want next go?” Porthos offers, nudging the barrel towards Athos. 

Athos shrugs, rolls himself off the bed, and gives himself the same dunking. Porthos is roaring with laughter when he comes up, which is always a good sign. Athos gives him a small smile and they dress in companionable silence. 

“Didn't find any figh', last nigh',” Porthos comments, placing Athos's hat on his own head and making for the door. 

Athos swaps the hat for Porthos's own, then follows him out to the training yard, lining up for Treville's orders. Treville ends with a similar comment to Porthos's. 

“It's been a week since we've had trouble,” Treville says, eyes boring into Athos and Porthos's hats. “Let's keep it that way!”

Which makes the next day entirely his and Porthos's fault, Athos feels. They're on guard at the palace, standing around waiting while the king plays with his birds of prey. Porthos gets bored within ten minutes, and proceeds to spend the morning seeing how loudly and disgustingly he can cough before people react. 

“He has a tickle in his throat,” Athos says, between gritted teeth, when Cardinal Richeliue himself comes up to glare at them. 

“Drink some water, then. Another cough out of you and I'll have Treville put you on duty in the latrines,” the Cardinal snaps, before striding away. 

Porthos grins at Athos, clears his throat, and then settles into complete stillness. It's un-nerving. Porthos is always moving, shifting about, shuffling his feet, running or sparring if he can be. Athos tries not to react, but when Porthos still hasn't moved a muscle fifteen minutes later, Athos breaks. He elbows Porthos. Porthos doesn't budge. Athos pokes him, then wriggles his finger into the tickles spot at Porthos's side. Porthos shivers, then stifles laughter.

“What are you doing?” Athos asks, quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Red guard, across from us. Third along,” Porthos mutters back, going steadily still again. 

Athos glances at Porthos's face and sees fierce intimidation. He looks across at the guards, and singles out the man Porthos has seemingly taken it upon himself to terrify. The man is looking disconcerted, so far, glancing at Porthos now and then. Porthos doesn't look away. He sinks into his stance and just stands, staring the man down. 

“He looked about ready to fain',” Porthos mutters, gleefully. “Thought I'd help him along.”

The man does look pale. Porthos stays stock still for another ten minutes, then suddenly moves forwards, bearing his teeth. He snaps back to attention just as the guard topples over in a dead faint. There's momentary commotion while the guard is revived and stood up once more. Porthos looks innocently at the sky. The guard glares at him. Porthos whistles through his teeth. As soon as people are distracted, he grins fiercely at the man. 

Athos sighs. They have two more hours on duty. Two more hours for Porthos to wind the red guards up. Then... well, then, Athos thinks, perking up a little, then he'll get the chance to use his sword. Treville, Athos thinks, has grossly underestimated the joy of duelling. He would allow them more freedom, if her remembered that thrill. Athos smiles at Porthos then sets about working on the guard to the left of Porthos's. 

They troop back to the garrison, tired but pleased with themselves. They'd drawn first blood, and Athos had had the pleasure of seeing a man tied by the ankle and hoisted up on the sign at a tavern door. Porthos had had the pleasure of doing the hoisting, and he's very happy with his day's work. They're swagger into the yard, and clearly the story's got around, because they're clapped on the back at once, a clamour of voices demanding their retelling of it. 

“Porthos! Athos!” Treville roars from above. 

Porthos grins widely and climbs the steps to the Captain's office, Athos on his heels. Treville gestures them in and to sit, then sighs, shaking his head. 

“This time, at least, you had the forethought not to be the ones who started it,” Treville says, icily. “I do not know what to do with you. Athos, you used to be so quiet and content.”

“And drunk,” Porthos adds. “And bored.”

“A little, only,” Athos corrects.

“And a little bored,” Porthos says. “And getting out of practice with that beautiful sword. Is it an heirloom?”

“It is. Thank you for noticing.”

“Would you two stop! For five god-damned minutes!”

Porthos beams, and Athos reluctantly passes him three coins. 

“Was more'n this,” Porthos says, shaking the coins. 

“No. It was more, but only if it was blasphemy before breakfast. The alliteration raised the price, if you recall,” Athos says. 

“Out.” Treville says, teeth grinding together. “Get out!”

They go, Porthos laughing once they're on the steps. He claps Athos on the back. 

“Quick thinking, with the money,” Porthos says. “I don' think I've seen a man go quite that colour, before.”

“I want more fighting,” Athos says. “That is all. I am merely... encouraging him.”

Porthos laughs again and jogs down to the training yard, calling the name of a tavern as he goes. Musketeers flock after him, and Athos joins them, knowing tonight they will be kept well in their jugs, thanks to Porthos's ever expansive story telling. Athos prepares to put his feet up, listen to his friend's voice, and get some good drinking in. 

The story of how Porthos stared a red guard into a dead faint keeps them in wine for almost a month, at which point it is revealed (most decisively not by Porthos or Athos) that the man in question had been suffering from both injury and illness. Porthos immediately switches to the story of making the red guard into a tavern sign, which gets a grudging audience who've heard the story already and do not care for it, and no wine. 

“The mayor of Chartres,” Treville says one morning, at this juncture, “is complaining of bandits. His loyalty to the king means he has the right to the king's protection. As the entire company is not needed, and as I am needed here in Paris, I will be sending twelve of you under the command of Monsieur Houle. He will pick his men. Dismissed!”

“Porthos,” Athos says, out of the corner of his mouth. “Have you upset Houle this month yet?”

“I shot his hat off. I'm gettin' good at that. He didn' appreciate the skill,” Porthos says, holding back laughter. 

“Porthos, Athos!” Monsieur Houle calls, smiling broadly. “You two will be coming with me, as well.”

Monsieur Amyot gives them a sympathetic look, but Houle calls his name, too. 

“How far is Chartres?” Porthos asks. 

“Eighty kilometres,” Amyot groans. “And by the time we get there, there'll be no one to fight, I wager.”

“I feel saddle sore already,” Porthos grumbles. 

Three days later, camped in the pouring rain, trying to keep a fire alight, Porthos is sore for real, though not saddle sore. He pulled a muscle in his back dragging Athos out of the Sein. Everyone is wet, everyone is bad tempered. Monsieur Houle has long since got over enjoying Porthos's discomfort and is instead wallowing in his own. 

Athos sits heavily beside Porthos, giving him a bowl of the weak stew Matthias has managed to make. There are lumps of rabbit meat floating grey-ly on the top. Porthos drinks it, makes a face, and picks a hunk of meat out to examine. Then he lets the whole thing drop out of his hands, bending forwards to lean on his knees. 

“My back hurts,” he mutters to Athos, miserably. “You should stop fallin' in the river.”

“My apologies,” Athos says. “Next time, I shall let myself drown too quickly for you to save.”

“Next time?” Porthos growls, turning on him, then yelping as it twists his back. 

Athos places a hand on his shoulder soothingly, rubbing over the tense muscles there. Porthos huffs out a breath that says all too clearly 'I'm still annoyed with you but I'm putting up with you because I am tired'. 

“Did you hurt yourself falling in the river?” a voice says, behind them. 

A clear, refined voice. Athos looks up for both of them, keeping Porthos from twisting around with a firm grip on his shoulder. He knows most of the musketeers, but Houle chose the two newest recruits to bring with them (to aid Porthos and Athos in the menial, drudgery tasks, Athos is sure), and he doesn't know this man. 

“He pulled a muscle,” Athos says.

“I have some salve that might help. Heat will also make the pain ease.”

“Heat is somethin' we don't have,” Porthos grumbles. “Who are you?”

“Aramis,” the man says, shortly, coming around and crouching in front of Porthos, opening a saddle bag he's brought with him. “Here's the salve.”

Athos rubs some of it into Porthos's sore muscles. Aramis retreats to the fire, then returns with a stone wrapped in his cloak. He passes that across to Athos, too, and Athos finds it hot, to his surprise. He presses it to Porthos's back, and Porthos moans in delight, going limp against his knees. 

“I'm Porthos,” he says. “The quiet grouchy bugger is Athos, and we very possibly love you.”

“I do not,” Athos says, then adds. “I do not mean offence.”

Aramis smiles at him, then gets behind Porthos again, and runs his hands over his back, pressing and massaging. Porthos makes odd little startled noises and once Aramis is done, he lets out a long, relieved moan. 

“You're right, it is merely a strained muscle,” Aramis says. 

“Who are you?” Porthos says, sitting up straight for the first time in two days. 

“As I said,” Aramis says, smiling again. “I am Aramis.”

“We'll keep 'im,” Porthos says, turning to Athos. 

Porthos, with that statement, rolls himself in his own cloak, rests the still-warm stone inside the cocoon against his back, curls up by the pathetic fire and goes promptly off to sleep. Athos smiles, another burst of fondness for the man rolling through him. 

“He sleeps rather easily,” Aramis says. 

“He can sleep anywhere,” Athos agrees, thinking of the time Porthos fell asleep halfway in and halfway out of a tavern cellar. 

Aramis sits with Athos, eating a bowl of the half-stew. He doesn't talk much, which Athos is fine with. When Aramis goes to lie down on his own, though, Athos calls him back and indicates the snoring Porthos. 

“He gives off heat,” Athos explains, stiffly. “He'll keep you warmer.”

Aramis gives another of his smiles, and curls up at Porthos's front, leaving a small gap between them. Porthos, sensing the body close to his own, rumbles in his sleep, gets hold of Aramis, pulls him in close, and settles again. Aramis yelps in surprise, and Athos finds himself smiling again. 

“Does it bother you?” he asks Aramis, all the same. 

“Not... no, I suppose it doesn't.”

“He's used to sleeping with others,” Athos says. “He was a footsoldier. Among other things.”

“I see,” Aramis says. “Well, then. I guess I shall sleep warmer than the past few nights.”

Athos nods, glad he's done his good deed for the year, and takes his place at Porthos's back. He rouses after a minute and fishes the rock out of Porthos's cloak, returns Aramis's cloak to him, then curls in closer. True to form, Porthos is giving off heat like he's stretched out in the sun and not stuck in a wet, rainy forest. Athos sighs in contentment and soaks up the warmth for himself, drowsing. 

He wakes to the soft voices. He identifies Porthos easily enough, but it takes him a few moments to identify Aramis. 

“I was a soldier,” Aramis is saying. “But only for six months. I found myself in a position to claim a place in the musketeers, and, well, here I am.”

“Did you do something to distinguish yourself?” 

“...I killed twelve men, and saved another,” Aramis says, softly. 

Porthos is silent at that. 

“Ignore Porthos,” Athos says, not opening his eyes. “He is not yet decided on the business of killing as part of his duties, though he has been a soldier at least six years. Congratulations on saving what I assume was your fellow's life.”

“I saved the Cardinal's life,” Aramis says. 

“Oh,” Athos says. “In that case...”

Porthos laughs, shifting against Athos's chest in order to cover his mouth and muffle the sound. 

“I have noticed the musketeers have no love for Richelieu,” Aramis says, slowly.

“Do you disapprove?” Porthos asks. 

“Not entirely,” Aramis admits. “His red guard seem to be my new sworn enemy.”

“Exactly,” Porthos says, comfortably, seemingly content with that. 

“It's your watch, Monsieur Porthos,” Amyot says, coming over. “Sorry to take your hot brick away, gentlemen.”

Porthos gets up, bending to press a hand to Athos's shoulder before leaving to take watch. Athos shifts into the warmth he leaves, and Aramis does the same, and they both freeze a moment. 

“Porthos is so free with physical contact,” Athos says, “let us observe the same sentiment.”

Aramis moves closer and they share the same space, a mere inch between them. Athos dozes. At some point Porthos comes over and shoves Aramis closer to Athos, rummaging in a saddle bag at their backs before wandering off again, whistling. Athos sleeps, after that, not waking until it's Aramis's watch and Porthos retakes his place, grumbling about feeling cold. He's still giving off heat, so Athos ignores the complaints and sleeps again. 

They arrive at Chartres the next day and, against Amyot's prophecy, there is still someone around to fight. The mayor has set up a barricade to the west of the city, but they're told it's actually in the woods to the west, beyond the town, that the men are lingering. They have apparently been making raids on the city for the last week, taking food and women and anything gold or precious not tied down. 

“Three men will take the barricade, three others will conceal themselves just outside the town. Two pairs, one either side of the road.” Houle says, “the rest will fan out into the forest and flush them out.”

Athos isn't surprised when he and Porthos are singled out for the job of thrashing about the forest. Amyot and Aramis join them, and they set out, leaving their horses in the town. The walk to the forest takes most of the afternoon, so they make camp, far off the road. Houle's not expecting them to work until tomorrow. 

Porthos sets the fire and cooks for them, easy in his movements, comfortable in their company. Athos sets a bottle of wine near the fire to warm as well, and they share a companionable meal with warm spiced wine and one of Porthos's stories. It's one of the ones Athos thinks might actually be more or less true, the story of how Porthos accidentally killed a wolf thinking it was an enemy soldier. 

“And then we put it on the spit and ate the bugger,” Porthos finishes, happily. 

“Are you sure it was not the king's portrait you ate?” Athos asks, suddenly recalling the other story. 

Porthos gives him a long look, then shakes his head seriously. 

“No. You were there for that one,” Porthos says. 

Amyot and Aramis look at them as if they're mad. Which, Athos thinks, they may well be. He's perfectly happy to be Porthos's particular brand of mad. It makes for a better life than being either sober, or horrendously drunk. 

They take long watches for the night, allowing uninterrupted sleep, and in the morning they break camp and split into two groups, staying in communication distance. The forest isn't big, and it's their job to make a lot of noise and get to the other side, in order to push the bandits towards the city in the evening. Porthos kills three of them, as the sun is waning in the sky, and that seems to turn the tide and they start heading towards the city. 

Aramis and Porthos start back after them, Amyot and Athos taking the rear guard. They fan out, killing or incapacitating the men who run. The leader seems to have a plan of one last raid before a hasty exodus, but not everyone complies. Athos and Amyot, a few metres of trees between them, are positively meandering by the time they reach the edge of the forest, there's so little to do. Porthos and Aramis are waiting for them, there, along with horses. Athos raises an eyebrow at the beasts. 

“Seemed a waste,” Porthos says. “They're good animals. They'll help up close the net.”

“You just stumbled across horses,” Amyot says, incredulously, swinging himself up into one saddle. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, grinning sharply. “Found their camp, didn't I?”

“That gold belongs to the town of Chartres,” Athos says, sternly. Porthos opens his mouth. “All of it.” Porthos frowns. “Even the things in your boots.” Porthos looks indignant. “And most especially whatever is secreted up the back of your shirt.”

Aramis, to Athos's surprise, lets out a bellow of laughter, kicking his horse into a canter. 

“Come on, light-fingers, lets get ourselves to this fight!” Aramis calls back. 

They join him in a gallop across the fields, and soon come across the fighting. Porthos roars and throws himself into the fray, and Athos loses track of him almost at once. The men are not as undisciplined as the caveat of 'bandits' suggested. In fact, Athos would wager good money on them being part of the Chartres guard. The way they fight suggests formal training, and their knowledge of the terrain quickly becomes obvious. 

Athos draws his sword and the thrill of it thrums through him. He tests the familiar weight of the blade, then sinks into it, thrusting and parrying, using his elbows and knees the way sparring with Porthos has taught him to do. He ends up back to back with a laughing Aramis, men surrounding them. Aramis is good, though, and Athos is the best, and they soon see their way clear, splitting up again. 

It's nearly two hours before the dust clears and Houle calls them together. They drag those still alive to a cart and Houle sends Amyot and three others after those fleeing. It's then that Athos notices Porthos's absence. Notices because Porthos doesn't protest the commandeering of his horse, which still has a bag of probably-gold tied to the saddle. 

“Porthos,” Athos says, grabbing Aramis's arm. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” Aramis says, looking around. 

Athos asks the others, and a search party is roused. Houle, to his credit, makes it a priority and even helps out himself. They scour the ground of the fight, checking the dips and hedgerows and the ditches beside the road. It's Houle who finds him. He's up by the barricade, off the road in a field. Athos runs towards them and finds Houle turning Porthos over. 

“Porthos!” Athos says, dropping to his knees and pulling Porthos into his lap. “Porthos. Come on, you great lumbering thief.”

“Who're you callin' thief?” Porthos slurs out, and Athos almost laughs in relief, cradling Porthos's head, looking down into his eyes. “Not a thief.”

“No, no,” Athos assures. “I know. Are you hurt? What happened?”

Porthos tries to sit up, and lets out a string of curses that encompasses the Court, Paris taverns, six years of soldiering, almost a year in the musketeers, and what sounds like Spanish.

“I taught him that,” Aramis says, kneeling beside them. “Where's he hurt?”

“I don't know,” Athos says, strained and far too frantic. “I... I..” 

He sucks in deep breathes, steadying himself, then sets about checking Porthos over. 

“His back,” Athos says, after charting Porthos's responses. 

They get his doublet off and find the blood, thick and sticky, all up Porthos's back. Athos bites his lip and pulls the tacky cloth away. 

“It's clotting,” Aramis says. “That's good. I can't see anything, there's too much blood.”

Athos yanks his own doublet and shirt off, passing the latter to Aramis. Houle provides a skin of water and Aramis cleans the blood away, revealing a long, deep gash across the left side of Porthos's back, wrapping around towards his ribs. It's still bleeding, fresh red joining the browning stain on Porthos's shirt, staining his dark skin darker. 

“This needs needlework,” Aramis says. “We need to stop the bleeding. Let's get him back to the town, find somewhere I can work. The light's going.”

Houle's already got a cart ready and it's the work of a dizzying moment to get Porthos aboard and on his way to the town. Athos stumbles after the cart, bare chested under his doublet. He's reacting badly, he knows. He's seen Porthos hurt before, more than once. Usually, though, he's been there when it happens and knows exactly the occurrence, knows how bad, how long, where, when, what. 

Athos finds himself wondering how he'll manage without Porthos. How would anyone manage without Porthos in the world? Porthos, who takes up so much space and pulls Athos out of the taverns and distracts him from drinking with fights and stories and fondness. Porthos who carries him home when he can't make it. Who pulls him out of the river. Porthos who loves him, whole-heartedly and unreservedly. Athos follows Porthos into a room lighted with lamps and candles, and stands by his head while Aramis cleans his hands and Porthos's back. 

“Have you done this before?” Athos asks. 

“Many times,” Aramis assures, smiling at him. “This is not the worst, not by a long shot.”

“Aramis is good at stitching,” Amyot says, coming into the room smelling strongly of wet horse. “It's one of the reasons Treville pressed for his promotion.”

“Good,” Athos says. 

Aramis has threaded a needle while they talked and now he presses it to Porthos's skin. There's a moment of trembling stillness in the big man, but then he's coming off the table, roaring and twisting for Aramis, dragging him across the table and flinging him to the floor, staggering to his feet and towards the back of the room, like a cornered animal.

“Porthos,” Athos says. 

Porthos turns on him, snarling, eyes wide and desperate, frantic fear behind them and no recognition. Athos hasn't seen him afraid, before. He tries calming him with his name again, but Porthos comes at him. So, Athos punches him hard enough to take him down. He crashes to the floor, out cold. 

“That's effective,” Amyot says. 

“Are you hurt?” Athos asks Aramis. 

“No. Or, not badly. Just bruised,” Aramis says, climbing to his feet and pressing a hand to his head. It comes away wet with blood. “And a little bloody.”

Amyot calls more men into the small space and they lift Porthos back onto the table. The needle's still attached to him by the thread, but he's bled everywhere and the thread it crimson now. Aramis staunches the blood, re-cleans everything, and finishes stitching him up. Everyone has left by the time Aramis has done. There's a line of fourteen stitches crawling up Porthos's back. Athos presses a thumb to the top of the gash, then pulls away to let Aramis bandage him up. 

“How's your head?” Athos asks. 

“Fine. It was just a small cut, it stopped bleeding almost at once.”

“I've never really seen him afraid,” Athos admits. “I know he was afraid, the first time I fell into the Sein. He kept calling me Charon. I think the fear takes him back, to somewhere else.”

“That happens sometimes.”

“Not just fear. Of course he gets scared sometimes and it doesn't happen. He's a soldier, though,” Athos mutters, no self control left. “He's trained to suppress the fear. I think when it's allowed to come out, away from battle...”

He looks down at Porthos. He can't remember when this man became so dear to him, but he is. Athos reaches out to touch, to assure himself. He can't remember ever loving someone how he loves Porthos.


	3. IN WHICH ARAMIS MAKES FRIENDS, BOTH ON PURPOSE AND ALMOST BY ACCIDENT (or; Aramis decides Athos takes work, and Porthos is beautiful)

Aramis sits on a barrel, under cover, watching Porthos and Athos spar. He's been curious about these two since they got back from Chartres a week ago. Porthos was friendly enough on the journey back, Porthos cheerfully cursing the world as he clung to his horse's saddle. Aramis had spent most evenings with them, Porthos white and silent with pain, Athos generally silent but holding Porthos, soothing him. Once in Paris, Aramis hadn't seen either of them. Until this morning, when they turned up at the morning briefing. Treville had ordered them to not leave the training yard unless it was to go to bed. Aramis had heard him mutter something about peace and quiet as he left.

 

It seems to be the habit of the musketeers to hang around the garrison, when they don't have duty. There are some who are on guard there, but the others seem to stay, too. They lounge around the courtyard, or on the steps below Treville's office, or at the tables in the long room used for eating. Aramis likes it. It's a kind of busyness that allows him to observe.

 

Porthos is fighting one handed, the tip of his blade scraping the dust as if he cannot lift it. Athos is using his left hand, though that doesn't seem to mar him much. His right is tucked into the waist of his trousers, behind his back. They've been exchanging and parrying blows for the last five minutes, neither putting much energy into it. They seem to be waiting for something.

 

It comes right at that moment- Treville bawls Bigaud's name from the office, and Porthos lunges. He parries Athos's defence and barrels right into him, using his body to force Athos back, trying to get the blade out of Athos's hand. Athos, though, seems to be used to such tactics. He retreats too fast for Porthos to get a good blow in, defends his groin assiduously (Aramis marks that to keep in mind if he ever fights Porthos), and soon they're circling one another again.

 

Next is a clatter of one of the stable boys knocking something over within. Porthos lunges again, but this time Athos twists away from the attack, trips Porthos and has him flat on his back within moments. Aramis notices that he slows Porthos's decent, cushioning his fall as much as he can, protecting Porthos. Aramis claps for them, making himself known.

 

“Aramis!” Porthos calls cheerfully, gripping Athos's arm and heaving himself back to his feet. “There y'are!”

 

“Here I am,” Aramis agrees, grinning.

 

He likes Porthos. Athos comes sauntering over, too, sheathing his blade.

 

“We've been meanin' to find you,” Porthos says, smiling back. “Your stitchin' is somethin' else. Athos says that at least half of it probably won't even scar, thanks to you.”

 

Aramis bows his head, accepting the compliment. When he straightens, Porthos is looking thoughtful and touching his jaw.

 

“I could'a sworn someone punched me, though,” Porthos muses.

 

“Ah, yes,” Aramis says, sorrowfully. “Sorry for that. You were a belligerent patient.”

 

“Ha!” Porthos says, grinning again, turning on Athos with a finger in his face. “Ha!”

 

“I had just persuaded him he passed out from the pain,” Athos says, drily.

 

“I see,” Aramis says, trying not to smile.

 

Porthos is doing a little, lopsided dance, though, presumably of victory. Aramis can't help the little laugh that bursts out of him. Porthos turns a sunny smile his way.

 

“Drinks are on Athos tonight,” Porthos says, leaning against Aramis's barrel. “Fancy coming along? We usually look for a couple of red guards bein' _belligerent_ , have a good fight or two, tell a story.”

 

“Porthos does all that, I merely drink,” Athos says.

 

Porthos gives another big, sunny smile, and Aramis finds himself smiling automatically back. Porthos's smiles are... Really, they're beautiful. The man is just beautiful. Standing there grinning like a fool, eyes bright, sun turning his entire face bright. He's just bright. Big, and bold, and bright.

 

“I think I will join you,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos leans further into the barrel, into Aramis's thigh, head falling back a little to look up at him. Aramis reaches out to touch, unable to help himself. He touches Porthos's cheek, then lets his hand fall to Porthos's shoulder. Porthos welcomes and accepts both touches.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says. “Will you go lie down before you fall down?”

 

Aramis examines Porthos's face for tiredness or pain. He finds pleasure, possibly at Athos's fussing. When Porthos straightens, though, he sways a little and his face creases in consternation and discomfort.

 

“Right,” Porthos says, turning and lumbering away.

 

Aramis watches him go, still smiling. Athos takes Porthos's place.

 

“You can come check on him in a bit, if you like,” Athos says, amused.

 

“I-” Aramis starts, then stops.

 

“Don't worry about it. He has that effect on some people. He likes you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Aramis feels himself flushing with pleasure. He laughs, touching his own cheek.

 

“You can help me make sure he doesn't drink so much he can't get home. Dragging him back when he's cross eyed is bad enough when he's not injured,” Athos adds.

 

He's giving Aramis a sly look, but it's good natured. Aramis laughs again, regaining his equilibrium.

 

“I have no shame in my love of the human form,” Aramis admits, touching Athos's chin, lifting his face.

 

“So I see,” Athos says.

 

He's less inviting to touch than Porthos, but he, too, accepts it.

 

“I am happy to love whoever appeals to me,” Aramis continues, watching Athos carefully.

 

Athos shrugs. Aramis relaxes. They stay there for a while, watching the musketeers pass by. A group go by with some of Dessessart's men, who greet Athos and ask after Porthos. A gentleman, in hat and cloak and carrying a parcel under his arm, strides past to Treville's office.

 

“Who's that?” Aramis asks.

 

“Monsieur Duc de la Tremouille,” Athos says, with a little distaste. “His men usually side with the red guard.”

 

“What's he doing here?” Aramis asks.

 

“They all come and go. Treville is known for giving out advice. He keeps civil with them, it helps iron out any little problems. They're probably having lunch. Speaking of which, we should find something to take to Porthos before he decides to venture out under his own steam.”

 

Athos pushes away from where he's leaning, heading towards the dining area. He calls for 'Serge' inside and has merely to say Porthos's name before food is forthcoming. Aramis thinks about asking about that, but decides not to. He carries the wine.

 

Porthos is asleep, sprawled across his bed on his front, snoring. Athos ignores him, setting things up on a table. Aramis follows his lead. Porthos snorts and coughs, then whines in the back of his throat, shifting uneasily. Athos nudges him with a knee, and Porthos comes awake.

 

“Lunch,” Athos says, ignoring Porthos's gasped breaths.

 

Athos turns away and Porthos gathers himself, pressing a hand to his eyes and pushing whatever dreams haunted him away. He looks up and meets Aramis's eyes, grimacing slightly. He rises with another grimace and comes over moving slower than this morning.

 

“Apple?” Porthos asks, taking a seat.

 

Athos passes one across. Porthos slices and eats it while Aramis and Athos help themselves to the bread and meat and potatoes. Aramis tells them the happenings at the garrison the past week, and they both listen attentively. Porthos draws more food to himself once the last slice of apple is gone, working his way slowly through everything before him. Aramis watches, impressed.

 

“Did Amyot say why he knocked Giraud on his back?” Porthos asks.

 

Aramis looks away from Porthos consuming half a loaf of bread and resumes his story. Porthos, it turns out, enjoys other people's stories almost as much as his own. Almost. If you spin him a yarn he'll give you bellowing shouts of laughter, wide eyed looks of surprise, encouraging noises to get you over the bits you forget. He also giggles. Aramis discovers the last in the tavern, and when he gives a startled laugh of his own, Amyot gives him a knowing smile.

 

“When he's drunk,” Houle says, leaning on Amyot's shoulder, “he'll giggle and blush like a woman if you get him in the right mood.”

 

“'o's this?” Porthos slurs, looking up from his cup. “'o's th'blushing... thingumy?”

 

“No one, Porthos,” Amyot says. “Where's your pistol?”

 

Amyot and Houle watch, stifling laughter, as Porthos searches for his pistol while telling (for the billionth time- even Aramis has heard it often) the story about shooting Treville's hat off. Amyot, while Porthos searches, twirls the pistol between his hands. Porthos eventually spots it and charges Amyot, which leads to a general, good natured brawl.

 

Porthos also, Aramis discovers, is very good at getting the musketeers back for the tricks they play on him when he's drunk. He plays cards with them, winning a good portion of every month's wages (when they're paid). Aramis knows he's cheating, but he can't spot how until, one evening, after everyone's cleared out from the inn, Athos catches him trying to work it out and grabs Porthos's arm, shaking until a bunch of cards fall onto the table.

 

“Stop doin' that,” Porthos growls. “You want me to lose this money? This beau'iful face?”

 

Porthos also has a habit of filling boots with various substances, from porridge to, on one memorable occasion, eels. Giraud is not very forgiving for the latter, especially as it leads to him screaming and half the garrison running to his aid, thinking he's one of the wives (“beau'iful,” Porthos murmurs). Aramis is sat, one day, hat over his face, pretending to be asleep to discourage Treville from giving him work, when he hears Porthos's dulcet tones.

 

“Alright, what about making it five livre?” Porthos says.

 

“You need a second,” another voice, maybe Bigaud, maybe Beaulac, Aramis can never tell those two apart.

 

“But if I have a second, will you put your money where your mouth is?” Porthos says.

 

“Alright. If you can find a fool as foolish as you, I will wager not five, but ten livre.”

 

“Done. Aramis!”

 

Aramis looks up and slowly gets to his feet, cracking his back and stretching as big as he can, then he saunters over to Porthos.

 

“Hmm?” He says, resting a hand on his sword.

 

He's expecting to be asked to a duel. He is not expecting Porthos to grin at him, huge and a bit wild with joy, and say:

 

“Second me? I'm betting on Betsy here making the captain scream. Beaulac suggests she isn't big enough, but I know the captain.”

 

Aramis squints at the tiny cricket captured in Porthos's big hands.

 

“Why do you need a second?” Aramis asks.

 

“In case the captain strangles him,” Beaulac says, not missing a beat. “We need a man who knows how to tell a story around here if he dies in this attempt. Alright, Porthos. Aramis tells a good story, I accept. Ten livre.”

 

“That's quite a sum for such a small cricket,” Aramis says. “Is Treville afraid of these?”

 

“We'll see,” Porthos says.

 

They do see. Treville yells and nearly falls over the balcony in his hurried escape. Beaulac bows, lifting his hat, then spins on his heel. Porthos grips Aramis's shoulder and makes them scarce, as well. Aramis is quite happy- he gets to doze in the sun with Athos, on watch without having to watch, Porthos and Athos bickering idly about which game to play next time they're put on guard at the palace; make the red guard faint, or the coughing game, or the Porthos faints from sheer boredom and gets many attentive ladies wafting him with a fan.

 

“You're more likely to get laughed at and dragged off by Athos,” Aramis comments.

 

“That's an untruth, that is. I'm very popular with the women,” Porthos says, flicking Aramis's hat.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says. “Between you and my horse, my horse is more likely to gain the approval of the ladies at court. Remember, most who are here now remember you skewering that wild boar. After trying to wrestle it. Most undignified.”

 

“Now that,” Aramis says, “is a story I wish to hear.”

 

Athos tells it, with Porthos butting in to enlarge upon the more heroic aspects, and nay say the less complimentary ones. Aramis is content.

 

Athos is harder than Porthos. Being friends with Porthos is just something that happens to one, with Athos one must make an effort. Aramis begins with drinking, that seems like a safe bet with Athos. It's easy- sharing wine, sharing stories of women, certain women, heartbreaking women. Athos doesn't tell much, just enough for Aramis to get the idea. Porthos just shrugs when Aramis asks him about it.

 

“We all get to keep some secrets,” Porthos says, eyes boring into Athos's head. “His hurt him, so I wish he'd share, but as long as he wants to keep 'em... I don't mind. Gotta just love him anyway.”

 

Porthos is hardly drunk at all on that occasion. Aramis really cements his friendship with Athos when they're sent to the king's hunt without Porthos (who is busy, according to him, mucking out the stables. According to the stable boy, Aramis finds out later, Porthos is busy sleeping in the hay while one of Dessessart's men pays off a gambling debt in labour). They run down a stag, but on the victorious return, they're ambushed by a small group of men.

 

Aramis and Athos ride at once to the king, but Aramis is thrown from the saddle and lands badly, his ankle and his knee twisting, landing heavily on rocks on his hip. He stands and defends the king, but by the time the men are dispatched, he collapses, pain clouding his senses. He comes back to himself in time to vomit into the dirt.

 

“Easy,” Athos's steady, calm voice says, and Aramis feels Athos's cool hand on his hot neck. “Steady, Aramis.”

 

His name on Athos's tongue is new. Athos usually avoids using it. He avoids speaking directly to most people. People who aren't Porthos. Aramis sits up, hands shaking as they reach for his leg.

 

“Stay still,” Athos says. “Giraud is going to bind your knee and splint your ankle. The king is safe, he's ridden back with the rest of his escort. Take your time, and take it easy.”

 

Aramis stills, trying to stop his body shaking. He's not been injured like this before. In the army he took a ball to the arm once, and a blade cut through the muscle in his side, but this kind of pain is different. He finds himself leaning into Athos for support, and Athos lets him. Giraud is gentle with his leg, and by the time he's done, Aramis is able to at least sit up and keep his eyes open, his senses more clear.

 

“Can you ride?” Athos asks. “If not, we'll find other means.”

 

“I can ride,” Aramis says. “Though perhaps not alone.”

 

Giraud helps him mount. He finds himself unable to sit astride, it causes his hip too much pain, so he rides side saddle, like a lady. He feels more like one for the way Athos's arms brace him and encircle him. He's ashamed. But when they ride into the yard at the garrison, no voice raises in laughter, only sympathy and respect.

 

“Oi,” Porthos says. “What've you done to yourself? Athos, I leave 'im with you for one afternoon, and you bring 'im back broke.”

 

“Broken,” Athos corrects, sharply. “Would you help instead of running your mouth off like usual?”

 

“Pass 'im 'ere, then,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis protests, but not loudly enough to stop them lowering him right into Porthos's arms. Athos dismounts and walks ahead of them, opening doors. He's laid in his own bed and a surgeon is sent for, and Porthos sits on the side at the table, playing patience over and over again until Athos sends him away.

 

“He wasn't worrying me,” Aramis protests.

 

“He'll be back. He's not good at sitting still, let him go fight someone, let some steam off. Probably shook him up, seeing us ride back like that.”

 

Aramis nods. Porthos stays gone until the next morning, and Aramis is left in Athos's care. Which is, to Aramis's surprise (though maybe he shouldn't be surprised, as he saw the way Athos cared for an injured Porthos), gentle and kind. He's also quiet, which is nice. Aramis makes conversation, to begin with, but he finds himself comfortable with the silences, and so he leaves them be.

 

By the morning, he feels he and Athos have come to a kind of understanding. Porthos comes barging in with breakfast, full of the story of the fish (Aramis doesn't try to follow, Porthos is too frenetic with energy to tell it in any kind of cohesive order). Athos eats silently, fluffs Aramis's pillows, rearranges his leg, and then shoves and pushes Porthos out, leaving Aramis in peace.

 

After nearly a week of peace, Aramis is about ready to scream, and Athos starts dragging Porthos in to sit for long hours, drinking wine and telling stories and sparring with Aramis from chairs. Porthos finds the latter hysterically funny and keeps nearly skewering himself on Athos's blade through laughing. He beats Aramis, though. He even beats Athos, but he does it by tipping the chair over and sending them both to the floor, which Athos says is cheating.

 

By the time Aramis's leg is healed, he can't remember a time he wasn't friends with Athos. They drink together, they goad the red guard and fight together, they listen to Porthos's stories and confiscate his pistol whenever he threatens to shoot people's hats off together. They even sit quietly and read together, while Porthos sleeps, or goes to fight his excess energy off.

 

**

 

“It's raining,” Porthos says.

 

Athos grunts.

 

“My boots are full 'a water,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis nods.

 

“My hair is goin' to be a nightmare when it starts to dry,” Porthos says.

 

Athos snorts.

 

“Oi, no makin' fun,” Porthos says. “Can we please find an inn? Please please please? I'm goin' to fall off my horse if we have to ride much further.”

 

“You forget that we know you, Porthos,” Aramis says. “If you fall from your horse, we shall know you are doing it on purpose.”

 

Porthos laughs, and kicks his horse into a canter, riding ahead a bit. They're picking up a prisoner, and it is wet and miserable and Aramis wants to rest as much as Porthos does. He's saddle sore, weary to the bone, and dirty. He's covered head to toe in mud, he's pretty sure there's even mud in his ears.

 

“Oi! Athos!” Porthos says, riding back, beaming. “There's a river up ahead, want to fall in it for old times' sake?”

 

“I have only fallen in the river twice,” Athos defends, though he's frowning. “There shouldn't be a river here.”

 

“All the rain must've flooded one somewhere,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Looks like the road goes right near the edge, might want to stop if you don't want to fall in for real.”

 

“This is the only way I know,” Athos says. “How dangerous is it? Thinking with your head, not the body that wants a soft bed right now.”

 

“It'll do,” Porthos says, grudgingly. “My arse is as sore as a-”

 

“Thank you, Porthos,” Athos says, sounding as weary as Aramis feels.

 

Porthos grins, then topples slowly from his horse.

 

“Porthos!” Athos snaps. “Don't play games.”

 

Porthos just groans.

 

“Damn it!” Athos says, pulling his horse around to avoid trampling Porthos where he's lying.

 

Aramis does the same, and his horse whinnies nervously and rears. A sharp sound comes from the left, Aramis only hears it because he's listening, and then his horse falls, a musket-ball in her flank. Aramis dives out of the way, narrowly avoiding being crushed, and covers his head.

 

“Athos! Someone's shooting at us!” Aramis cries.

 

“I noticed!” Athos roars back.

 

They can't see, can barely hear, over the rain, and they're a man and a horse down. Aramis scrambles around and drags Porthos into a ditch. It's wet, but it's shadowed and partially covered. Aramis can hear a horse whinnying, and Athos cursing and returning fire. There's a yell in the trees. Aramis feels along Pothos's arms, over his chest, over his head. He finds nothing.

 

“Porthos?” Athos yells.

 

“Can't find anything,” Aramis says, searching again.

 

Porthos groans and comes awake, yanking himself out of Aramis's arms and trying to get to his feet. Aramis pulls him down.

 

“Where are you hurt?” he demands, holding Porthos still. “What hurts, Porthos?”

 

“My shoulder, I'm fine. Just startled the 'ell out'a me. Let m'up.”

 

Aramis lets him up. Porthos staggers through the rain, finds his horse and heaves himself into the saddle. Aramis follows him. They stand, Athos and Porthos horsed, Aramis on his feet, facing the tree line.

 

“I shot one of them,” Athos says. “I think there are three.”

 

There's movement in the trees.

 

“I'll flush 'em out,” Porthos says.

 

He's grinning again. He spurs his horse on and they leap into the trees, crashing around and yelling, charging the darkness down. Aramis grins. Two men run out, swords drawn, one looking back over his shoulder. They're easily dispatched. Porthos returns a few moments later, a body over the saddle in front of him, a man tied by the wrists, tripping after him.

 

“Look who I found,” Porthos says, grinning.

 

“Is this all of you?” Athos asks, his blade finding the throat of Porthos's prisoner.

 

The man gulps and nods frantically. Aramis goes to see to his horse, finding the animal shaking and whinnying. Aramis kneels and holds her head, shushing her. He sings to her, a rowdy drinking song, slow and warm as he can. Porthos puts a ball in her head as he does, and she dies quickly. Aramis drags and shoves her to the ditch, then stands and removes his hat, sending a prayer up for her.

 

He hasn't prayed much, as a musketeer. He feels the relief of it, the comfort, and resolves to do better. He promises to read the bible, the next time he and Athos sit down. He promises to go to church for more than finding a patron.

 

“Aramis,” Porthos says. “Come on. I was cold and wet and sore before being shot and dragged into a ditch, now I swear I am dying.”

 

Aramis turns. There are three men tied to Athos's horse, the fourth dead, still across Porthos's saddle. Athos reaches down and Aramis accepts the hand, swinging himself up to ride behind Athos. Their progress is slow, the burst river impeding them, the walking prisoners limiting them. By the time they reach the inn, Aramis is surprised Porthos doesn't fall from his horse again. He slides off with little dignity or grace, but he keeps his feet and gives orders to have the body buried, the prisoners locked up.

 

Once in a room, Aramis strips Porthos till he's bare chested, then examines the wound. It's a scratch, a hot burnt line of skin, a deep gauge of blood.

 

“Not bad,” Aramis says. “Though it'll hurt when I clean it.”

 

Porthos shrugs, but he yells when Aramis actually gets to cleaning it, cursing everyone and everything, including but not exclusively Athos's privates, Aramis's hat, and the chamber pot. He even spits out the Spanish words Aramis has taught him, curses or not. Aramis laughs, binding Porthos's arm and patting his shoulder.

 

“All done. What a fuss!” Aramis says, smiling.

 

“It hurt,” Porthos says.

 

“That threw you from the saddle?” Athos says, incredulity lifting his eyebrows and his voice.

 

Porthos scowls at him.

 

“I wasn't expecting it. I leant to the side to avoid it, after it hit me, and then just... kept leaning. Think I hit my head when I landed.”

 

Aramis feels for bumps and checks for bruising, but finds nothing. Porthos scowls harder and stomps around demanding food and wine and hot water. He's in a foul temper by morning, and Athos sends him back to Paris with a cart and their three prisoners. Porthos agrees, still grumbling.

 

“Should we send him alone?” Aramis wonder aloud, as they ride away, on Athos's horse and one Aramis procured from the inn-keeper.

 

“He'll be fine,” Athos says. “They're hardly skilled men, merely desperate.”

 

“A desperate man can do much damage.”

 

“Porthos is capable. We have to complete the king's business. We shouldn't be more than a day behind, if he dies we'll find him in time to have a decent funeral.”

 

“It'll be a lovely service,” Aramis says. “We'll only say good things about him.”

 

“We'll miss out the bits about him pretending to faint at the palace.”

 

Aramis laughs, feeling easier for Athos's lack of concern. When they return to Paris, they find Porthos with his feet up in the yard, arm in a sling and heavily bandaged, telling the story of a band of men, ten at least, that he fought off single handedly. Neither Athos nor Aramis rat him out, and Porthos buys them drinks with the winnings of his various card games.

 

“They let the invalid win,” Porthos says. “I don't even have to cheat.”

 

Aramis remembers, the next day, of his promise to God. Athos is sitting in the weak sunshine, Porthos on duty, reading through a scientific tract, so Aramis goes to fetch his bible and settles himself close. He's enjoying a bit of Luke when Porthos comes over. Porthos's arm is no longer bandaged, Treville demanding he either go on duty or act like an injured man and stay out of trouble.

 

“What are you readin'?” Porthos asks.

 

“Did Amyot finally beat that new recruit?” Aramis asks.

 

“Mm. Nothin' interesting going on down there, now,” Porthos says.

 

He nudges Aramis with a boot to remind him of the question, and Aramis holds up the book. Porthos squints and tilts his head.

 

“The bible?” Porthos says.

 

Aramis turns the book to look at the cover. It's the same familiar leather, with the title stamped in with fake gold colouring. He raises an eyebrow at Porthos.

 

“What?” Porthos says.

 

“It says it very clearly,” Aramis says.

 

“Oh yeah,” Porthos says, and lumbers off again.

 

Athos comes, a few moments later, sitting closer than he's wont.

 

“I believe he hasn't ever learnt to read, beyond the absolute necessity of his name,” Athos says, softly.

 

Aramis looks at Porthos, surprised. He knows some of the soldiers were illiterate, but he doesn't know another musketeer who doesn't at least have the basics down. He doesn't question Athos, though. He definitely doesn't bring it up with Porthos. If Athos only 'believes' and doesn't know, that means Porthos doesn't talk about it. Aramis has learnt that when Porthos says they're allowed to keep some secrets, he is speaking of himself as much as he is speaking of Athos.

 

Porthos must overhear something, though, or catch Aramis's thoughts (probably not Athos's thoughts. Athos's thoughts tend to be too muddled up with grouchiness and wine to be clear on his face the way Aramis knows his sometimes are). He comes up to Aramis, who is once again pretending to be sleeping to avoid Treville, and possibly actually mostly asleep.

 

“Oi,” Porthos says, nudging him off the hay bales into the loose chaff. Aramis flails eloquently and finally gets upright, hay sticking in his hair and his beard and his clothes.

 

“What?” he asks, grumpily de-haying himself.

 

“I can read,” Porthos says, plucking a piece of straw out of Aramis's hair.

 

“Okay,” Aramis says. “Fine.”

 

“Thought I'd tell you. Takes me a while to work out the letters, sometimes, but I can do it. Taught meself.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, realising he's stepped on Porthos's pride. He looks up.

 

Porthos is carefully not meeting his eyes, looking anywhere but at Aramis. He pulls a piece of hay out of Aramis's shirt, cheeks flushing a little.

 

“Would you like to practise?” Aramis asks, eventually, when Porthos looks at him.

 

Porthos looks quickly away, flushing harder.

 

“Can't do them books you an' Athos read. Too little,” he mumbles.

 

“We can find you something,” Aramis says, smacking his shoulder. “Cheer up. Stop grumbling, I can barely hear you. It's disconcerting. You're usually so loud.”

 

“I can do it,” Porthos says, again, “Your bible's just really curly. I can read.”

 

“I believe you. If you want practise, however, I can write some passages out for you, larger and simpler. If you read more like that, you'll get more practised and be able to read even the most intricate of calligraphy, eventually.”

 

Porthos doesn't reply. Aramis goes back to napping, and Porthos lumbers off to beat the snot out of someone else. Aramis is careful not to spar with him, that day. Porthos comes to Aramis's rooms, however, late one evening, and mumbles and grouches until Aramis makes the offer to write things out for him again. After that it becomes habit for Porthos to come round a couple of evenings a week and practise. Athos sometimes joins them, and pretends he has no idea what Porthos is doing, sometimes it's just the two of them.

 

Porthos gets notably better at reading, and takes great pride in showing off his skill. He takes to reading reports upside down on Treville's desk, much to the captain's annoyance. They get sent to stand guard on a hot day for that particular irritation. Porthos also shows off his skill by reading out a love missive found tucked away in the stable. To everyone's great amusement. That one leads to Monsieur Houle confiscating Porthos's boots, next time Porthos gets drunk at the tavern, and Porthos walks bare-foot through Paris until Houle can be induced to return them the next afternoon.

 

Aramis feels nothing but pride. He's become incredibly fond of Porthos. Athos comes over, Porthos's boots under one arm, Porthos's hat held securely in his other hand, and drops down next to the man himself. Porthos, suffering from the night before to the point he's already asked Aramis to shoot him three times, just grunts. Athos grunts back.

 

“Thank you,” Aramis says.

 

Athos looks up, surprised, and a wide, rare smile splits his face, making him look suddenly about ten years younger. Aramis realises that Athos isn't really much older than Porthos and himself.

 

“I told Houle Porthos would be paying for wine tonight,” Athos says, softly, grinning.

 

Aramis laughs, delighted, and leans forward to hear what else Athos has promised Porthos will do. Athos, it turns out, has made many promises. Aramis is content, stupidly fond of the friends he's made, happy to just sit in their company and soak it up with the sun.

 

 

 


	4. IN WHICH THE THREE OF THEM FALL IN AND OUT OF TROUBLE, AND TIME PASSES (or; Porthos discovers new things to shoot)

 

Athos watches Aramis and Porthos spar. Porthos is limping, but refusing to admit he's limping, which means he's probably just aching from old wounds. Or that he sprained something in an embarrassing way. Whichever it is, Athos doesn't need to hear it, so he ignores the limp. He's supposed to be giving notes, but he had too much wine last night and Porthos is in a flighty, energetic mood that means he's just doing stupid things to make himself laugh. Like letting Aramis disarm him, and fighting with his hat, instead.

 

“If you gentlemen aren't busy,” Treville says, interrupting the fight, making Athos straighten up a couple of inches, “Your tack needs cleaning. The stable boys have got off most of the mud you managed to cake on there, but the bits and stirrups need shining and the leather needs rubbing with oil.”

 

“Why can't the stably boys do that, as well?” Porthos asks.

 

Treville mutters something under his breath about trouble, spins Porthos some story about duty and stable boys needing time off too and retreats hastily before Porthos can open his mouth to ask more questions. Athos pats Porthos on the shoulder as he troops sadly into the stable. He catches Aramis hiding laughter, probably at the expense of Porthos's ridiculous sad-cow eyes, and Athos smiles at him, amused.

 

He's working oil into his reins when he notices Porthos sidling over to Aramis, out of the corner of his eye. Porthos takes the metal he's been polishing along, so Athos doesn't comment. Porthos makes some quiet complaints and Aramis answers in a soothing manner, easing away some of Porthos's irritable energy. Athos is impressed with the way Aramis has of doing that. He seems to be very good at it, easing Porthos back when he gets over excited. Athos realises, suddenly, that they don't know he can hear every word.

 

“...besides,” Aramis is saying, running a comb over Flick's back and flanks (he's ignoring Treville's orders and seeing to his horse, instead of his tack. He seems to have some agreement with the stable boy, who is sat up in the hayloft doing the tack). “Athos is in a good mood. We should be thankful for this day of rest from grumpiness.”

 

“Athos ain't bad,” Porthos defends.

 

Athos smiles. He hadn't been offended by Aramis's summing up of his character, but Porthos's loyal denial is nice to hear anyway.

 

“Yes, Athos 'ain't bad',” Aramis says. “But it is nice to see the man smile. He's done it three whole times this morning. It's a little disconcerting, actually.”

 

“Athos smiles,” Porthos says.

 

Athos feels Porthos sending a cheerful, fond grin his way, and carefully carries on with his oiling. He is aware that you only ever overhear bad things about yourself, but he's entertained by this, and he's bored, and he actually has no idea how to let them know he can hear. So he keeps quiet.

 

“Three times, Porthos,” Aramis says. “All of them full-fledged. Not just smirks, or curling lips, or twitching facial muscles, but actual, big, whole smiles.”

 

“Huh,” Porthos says. “That is a bit weird. Maybe he got some last night? I left him at the tavern, who knows what he got up to.”

 

“Did he not stagger back to your room? I swear I saw him coming out of your rooms instead of his, this morning.”

 

“You may have. I thought he came in this morning. Maybe he was there last night.”

 

“Aren't you supposed to be a seasoned warrior, waking at any movement near you? You're going to get killed by a pillow one day, mark my words.”

 

“My pillows have all come around to my side, none of 'em have got a single murderous thought.”

 

“I meant at the hands of someone wielding a pillow you- oh shut up.”

 

Porthos's loud laughter comes booming across the stable and Athos looks up to watch, smiling. Aramis narrows his eyes slightly in Athos's direction, but Porthos just beams back, raising his bit in a kind of salute.

 

“That one looks about done,” Athos calls. “you think you rub it long enough it'll turn to gold? Get on with the leather, Porthos. I don't want to be here all day, and I have a feeling Treville, in the spirit of keeping us out of trouble, is not going to let me go until you're both done.”

 

“I'm nearly done, sir,” François calls from above.

 

“Good,” Athos calls back. “You shall have the last of the apples I bought at the market last week. There are at least four of them, a little wrinkled but sweet.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” François says, sounding pleased.

 

“I want apples,” Porthos grumbles. “I like apples.”

 

“Then you'd better get on with it,” Athos says. “If you can finish before the boy, you can have one of the apples.”

 

François makes a disappointed noise and Porthos looks up, grinning.

 

“Don't worry, Frankie,” Porthos says. “I'm too lazy to get this done in an 'urry. Your apples are safe. Tell you what, though, if you do me reins, after your done with Aramis's stuff, I'll get you a whole bag of brand new apples.”

 

“No thanks, sir,” François says. “I can buy apples myself, if I want them. I've got my own work to be getting on with when I'm done.”

 

“You work too hard,” Porthos says. “On you go, though. I won't hold it against you. Hard-work in other people is something I can admire, I suppose.”

 

François laughs, because they all know hard work is something Porthos looks on with bewilderment. They also all secretly know that Porthos, behind his lazy, happy go lucky attitude, has worked pretty hard himself, to get where he is. Few know where exactly he's come from, but stable boys will often claim them for their own, if they're Parisian, whispering that he comes from whatever poor street they were born on.

 

“Aramis, you're right,” Porthos says, back at normal volume. Athos sets about working on his saddle. “He just smiled three times in a row.”

 

“I know, I saw. It's a bit creepy, isn't it? Did you put something in his water this morning?”

 

“Maybe he's still drunk,” Porthos suggests.

 

“When he's drunk he's maudlin, not cheerful.”

 

They discuss it all the way through the morning, only stopping when François hops down and gives Aramis his things back, which Athos takes advantage of to interrupt and shift a little closer, ostensibly to carry on a conversation with Porthos. How they think he can hear them a foot closer, and hadn't been able to before, he has no idea.

 

The question of his smiling is carried on up at the palace, where they're all on duty, the next day. It's raining, autumn finally settling itself into cold or rain, or both, pretty constantly. Porthos is snuffling and coughing, a cold making him bad tempered and miserable. Aramis distracts him by counting how many times Athos has smiled since yesterday. Athos ignores them.

 

They make it an ongoing game, though. If they make him smile, they get extra points. Which has the effect of making him scowl a whole lot more for a while. Then Porthos fights dirty. He uses affection to get to Athos, wrapping an arm around him here, giving him an enthusiastic hug there, muttering nice things when they're on duty. Athos can't help it, because he knows that Porthos is just trying to win a game with Aramis, but he is equally sure that Porthos means every word and every gesture.

 

“I 'ave twelve,” Porthos says, one evening at the tavern. “Twelve 'ole Athos smiles!”

 

“Tell us a story, Porthos,” Houle says. “Anything. Please, just stop going on about that stupid game!”

 

“I don't 'ave any stories,” Porthos says, settling next to Athos, shoulder to shoulder. Athos feels him shrug. “I'm all out. Run dry. I could go over old ground, tell you some old Athos and Porthos tales from way back when, before Aramis entered into things.”

 

“We've heard them all,” Amyot mutters, very drunk and slightly belligerent.

 

“Oh no you 'aven't,” Porthos says, grandly. “I know one none of you 'ave 'eard, even you, Mis. New to all but me an' 'im.”

 

“Stop dropping your 'h's,” Aramis says.

 

“I always drop 'em.”

 

“Not every single one of them. You're doing it on purpose to annoy me, and when I went to get you more wine, too,” Aramis says.

 

“Tell us this story, then,” Houle says.

 

“Might as well, I guess,” Porthos says. “Lost my pistol _and_ my hat tonight, so not much else to do.”

 

“Get on with it,” Amyot says.

 

“Well,” Porthos says, and he's off.

 

The story is entirely fictional, but it makes everyone laugh, and it makes Athos smile. To which Porthos whispers 'thirteen' to Aramis, and starts a brawl. It's not really a brawl, more Aramis and Porthos rolling around with the furniture, Porthos laughing wildly. Athos and Houle pull them apart when a red guard wanders in. They all sit against the wall, watching him.

 

“I know 'im,” Porthos says, and he's definitely dropping them on purpose. “He used to be one of Dessessart's men.”

 

“Yeah?” Athos says.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “He was there when Treville picked me out. When I shot-”

 

“Off his hat,” They all chorus, and Porthos grins.

 

“Yeah, that,” Porthos says, a speculative look in his eye.

 

Athos clamps a hand over his pistol, just before Porthos's hand sneaks over to check for it. Amyot is not so fast and Porthos, before any of them can stop him, is up and across the cluttered, smoke-filled room. He sweeps a melon up off someone's table on his way, and gets a cry of outrage.

 

“I'd better go see if I can't dissuade him from shooting someone,” Aramis says, wandering after him.

 

Athos shrugs, and commandeers the wine skin his friends were drinking out of for himself, sitting back to watch. The red guard is looking increasingly angry, Aramis is looking increasingly amused. Then Porthos turned to Aramis, and Aramis's face falls. Porthos seems to be onto a new thing, though, forgetting the guard and chivvying Aramis against one of the wooden uprights supporting the ceiling. Athos frowns when Porthos balances the melon on Aramis's head and back away. Aramis moves, grabbing the melon and trying to escape, but Porthos puts him back and re-balances the melon.

 

“Should we go save Aramis's ears?” Amyot says, rubbing his own where Porthos once shot him.

 

“He can probably make the shot,” Athos says, but he sits up, tense.

 

“We'll see. If he shoot Aramis's head off, you're taking the blame,” Houle says.

 

“He's still as mad as when I knew him,” the red guard says, looking white and shakey. They turn as one to glare at him. He holds up his hands. “I'm just glad he decided to shoot his friend instead of me,” he says.

 

They watch as Porthos sways, lining up his shot, taking aim.

 

“If he really shoots Aramis,” Athos says. “I will take the blame, but only if you keep me in wine for a week if he makes the shot.”

 

“Not on your life, you'll drink away all my savings,” Houle says.

 

“If he shoots Aramis, non-fatally,” Amyot says, thoughtful. “You buy me drinks for a week. If he shoots him, fatally, Porthos buys everyone drinks, forever. If he makes the shot, I will buy you drinks for a week, but only at the rate Porthos drinks.”

 

“Done,” Athos says.

 

The gun shot makes people yell, and Aramis screams. There's a moment while the dust settles where everyone examines Aramis for damage, but then Aramis beams, shattered Melon in his hair and beard, and Porthos roars his victory.

 

“Bugger,” Amyot says.

 

“Porthos!” Athos calls, and Porthos turns, grinning widely. “You've got to drink faster, this week!”

 

Porthos wins the smiling game. Aramis gives in, once he understands Porthos has just won Athos wine for a week. He makes a half hearted attempt at gaining some points the next night, but Porthos just redoubles his drinking, and Athos calls for another skin, and Aramis accepts defeat. Athos gives him a smile, though. Out of kindness.

 

It's sort of maybe his fault that Porthos replaces shooting people's hats with shooting melons off Aramis's head. It makes most people happy and Aramis, once he gets used to it, enjoys the interest and admiration it garners for him. Aramis gets very good at bravado, and at telling stories about the times Porthos has missed (he hasn't missed yet). It makes him seem braver, he tells Athos, and gets him more attention.

 

The summer comes, hot and stifling, and Porthos's complaining is like a never ending backing track to their endless, boring days on watch. Porthos's laughter is the backing to their much less boring skirmishes with the red guard. Athos likes that much better. Then Autumn comes, and they get sent to Poitiers, and Athos watches Aramis tugging stitches into Porthos's skin, as they're shot at. Porthos screams obscenities the whole time, and when Aramis is done stitching, Porthos rises up, covered in blood and angry as a bear stung by bees. They win that battle.

 

Winter brings snow, and more complaining, a lot of it this time is complaining about pain, and Athos has more sympathy. The wound from Poitiers gets infected and Porthos is off his feet for more than a month, and then in pain from it as the muscle heals for two others. The snow and the pain means less duelling, but when Monsieur Dessessarts men call for aid, one cold afternoon, they run in anyway. Porthos slides in the snow and ends up flat on his back, accidentally skewering the man he's fighting. Which is unfortunate. They do try to limit their casualties.

 

Then spring comes with a new flush of warmth, and brings with it a cheerful mood. Aramis is in high spirits and gets them into more trouble than usual, their run ending when they're chased through Paris by an angry husband and said-husband's friends. Porthos comes back from that excursion with half a roasted boar and a quiet anger that quells their exploits for a few weeks while Porthos works his irritation with them out on other people.


	5. ON D'ARTAGNAN (or; d'Artagnan is nosey, and they learn something new about Porthos)

By the time d'Artagnan walks into the yard, looking for the man who killed his father, there have been more skirmishes, more duels, more battles than they've counted. Savoy has happened, and they're pulled Aramis back together. Athos has been shot twice, and almost died once. And, as Porthos loves to relate, Athos has fallen, once again, into the Sein. Treville sometimes thinks back on the days before Porthos arrived, when Athos was just a sulky drunk. Then he remembers that Aramis gets into just as much trouble, and questions his decision to promote him, as well. The three 'inseparables', as everyone has taken to calling them, are the bane of his existence.

 

Aramis is sitting in the yard, oiling his musket, d'Artagnan idly sitting at his feet, playing with an apple, one day. Aramis is curious about d'Artagnan, and glad he's still hanging around. Aramis finds his company stimulating. He enjoys answering the many, many questions d'Artagnan has, making half his answers up. Like when d'Artagnan asked about the scar across Porthos's face. Aramis has no idea where it came from, but he's rather proud of the story he wove. d'Artagnan hadn't been impressed, only scoffing that ghosts don't exist.

 

“I was surprised to learn,” d'Artagnan says, looking sideways up at Aramis, trying to be sly, “that Porthos sings.”

 

Aramis hides his surprise. He has no idea whether Porthos sings. d'Artagnan has taken to making things up, too, in order to extract more information from Aramis. It's a good game, trying to one up each other. This could be just something along those lines. Aramis hums.

 

“It was beautiful,” d'Artagnan says, and that's genuine enough.

 

Aramis looks over at Porthos. He's currently sat at a table with Amyot and Giraud, and they're taking turns shooting at the targets being set up, sending the men doing the setting up scurrying. They seem to be playing by a points system that operates on how loud and high pitched the shrieks they get are.

 

“He's full of surprises,” Aramis says, smiling.

 

Treville bellows from the balcony above and Porthos comes over, ducking down.

 

“I've been 'ere all along,” Porthos says.

 

His hands run quickly over his pistol, pulling it apart, and he pulls the rag out of Aramis's hand, running it over the pieces. Aramis sighs and plucks another rag off the bench, oiling it up. d'Artagnan's laughing, but he stops with a yelp. Aramis supposes Porthos kicked him. Treville comes up to them, hands on his hips, glowering.

 

“Porthos,” Treville says, anger warring with weariness.

 

It's a tone they're familiar with. Aramis stifles his amusement and watches Porthos raise a face that would melt butter to Treville's scrutiny.

 

“Yes, Captain?” Porthos says.

 

“That pistol you're cleaning wouldn't happen to be one of the ones that was involved in the ruckus just now?”

 

“Ruckus? If you mean was I one of the men shooting at the targets, sir, then no. God forbid I use my firearm in such an irresponsible manner! And in front of the boy! I wouldn't,” Porthos says, pressing an oily hand to his heart.

 

“You would,” Treville says.

 

“I take issue with that. But, as you are our Captain, I will forgo taking offence. I will just point out that my gun is in pieces and covered in oil.”

 

Treville makes a harrumphing noise and strides off to berate the other two. d'Artagnan makes a strangled, choking noise, and this time Porthos just grins proudly at him. He is certainly enjoying having someone new to show off for.

 

“Hey,” Porthos says, looking around. “Where's Athos?”

 

“I have no idea,” Aramis says.

 

“I saw him,” d'Artagnan says, perking up. “He was on his way over, but was stopping at the market.”

 

“Ooh, good,” Porthos says, rubbing his hands together.

 

Aramis takes back his rag and Porthos re-assembles his gun with the same quick, nimble speed as he took it to bits. d'Artagnan tilts his head back to watch.

 

“I've never seen anyone take a gun apart that fast,” d'Artagnan says, that ever unquenchable curiosity turning his eyes bright.

 

“Porthos has quick fingers,” Aramis says.

 

“Oi,” Porthos says, shoving Aramis hard enough that he scoots along the bench a little. “I'm not thief.”

 

“As if I'd imply such a thing,” Aramis says, laughing.

 

Porthos pulls d'Artagnan up onto the bench, into the now-empty spot, and tells him a long and confusing and not really true story about how he got so good at putting his gun together and taking it apart. It seems to be a rambling story about how much women like him, and Aramis has no idea where it's going, until Porthos makes an incredibly lewd movement with the fingers of one hand.

 

“Porthos!” Aramis says, laughing harder, reaching over to cuff him around the back of the head. “You did not get quick hands by pleasuring ladies! d'Artagnan, don't believe a word he says. And by no means take a cue from him in how to be a gentleman! You should never give a lady away, especially not like that.”

 

“I never said any names,” Porthos grumbles.

 

Athos arrives, then, distracting Porthos with the promise of something good hidden about his person. Athos usually brings Porthos an orange, when he goes to the market. Today he seems to have forgotten. d'Artagnan watches them eagerly.

 

“They know one another well?” d'Artagnan asks, when Porthos shoves his hand into Athos's trousers.

 

“Not that well,” Aramis says, grinning, as Athos playfully draws his blade to 'defend his honour'.

 

Porthos spars with him for a few minutes, then gets bored and flings his sword in Athos's general direction, diving after it. Athos, to Aramis's surprise, falls to the assault and Porthos roars in victory, rolling on top of Athos and sitting on him, orange firmly won.

 

“He doesn't usually win,” Aramis says, amused when Porthos stays sat on Athos to peel his orange.

 

d'Artagnan's laughing too hard to talk. Porthos eventually gets up and pulls Athos after him, and they join Aramis and d'Artagnan on the bench. Aramis tidies away the small piece of information about Porthos singing into a corner of his mind, to ruminate over later. He doesn't forget.

 

Aramis doesn't think about the singing thing again, not until they're drunk and Porthos starts up one of the raucous, bawdy songs that he has a habit of putting his own words to. The musketeers around them join in the chorus, all of them used to picking out the words Porthos is singing whichever night and going along with it. Amyot has a nice voice. But Porthos? Porthos is just enthusiastic. d'Artagnan winces.

 

“I take everything back,” he says, in Aramis's ear. “He's dreadful!”

 

Aramis laughs, then he finally catches on to the fact that Porthos is singing about Athos and that the narrative, that of a man running through Paris in women's petticoats, is based entirely in fact. He laughs harder and harder, remembering Athos turning up very late one night, Porthos trailing after him, both very drunk, and Porthos saying Athos had been dressed as a woman. Aramis, having only known the two a short time then, had no believed it. He believes it now.

 

“Oh do shut up,” Athos says, as Aramis almost chokes himself in his mirth. “Porthos! Sit down and be quiet, you lush!”

 

Porthos roars another chorus, only halfway through a verse, and Aramis joins in, through tears of laughter. Even d'Artagnan's singing along. Athos sighs, drawing Porthos's bottle to him, possibly it's wine but possibly it's the cheap, piss-water beer that Porthos has become a martyr to. Aramis guesses it's the second by Athos's grimace. Porthos sits down after another chorus.

 

“Maybe I should tell 'em the story about young d'Artagnan's grappling with the laundry?” Porthos says, grinning.

 

Aramis smiles at d'Artagnan's bright blush.

 

“It wasn't my fault! You were all three coming at me, and the laundry was confusing!”

 

“You got tangled in it,” Porthos says, beaming. “It was brilliant.”

 

“Don't tell them!” d'Artagnan cries.

 

“No? As you wish,” Porthos says, smile turning fond.

 

He ruffles d'Artagnan's hair, then drags d'Artagnan across Aramis's lap so he can half hug half strangle him. Aramis extracts d'Artagnan from Porthos's over-enthusiastic arms and suggests Porthos tell everyone the story about the wolf, instead.

 

Aramis settles next to Athos, the next day, spreading his bible on his knees. Athos is on duty and just grunts in greeting. They're both a little hungover, and it's nice to just be quiet together. Porthos staggers up half an hour later and lays down on his back, sprawling and stretching in the sunshine before settling with his head on Aramis's leg (now stretched out in front of him) and napping. It's familiar, and Aramis lets himself get lost among the words he knows and loves, Porthos's weight and warmth grounding him, Athos's occasional shift reminding him he's safe. He needs these quiet days, since Savoy. Needs them like breathing.

 

It's wrong of him, perhaps, but he's a little irritated when, the next day (Porthos on duty, this time), d'Artagnan finds them and joins them, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Athos. It's selfish of him not to want to share. But Aramis doesn't want to share. d'Artagnan's presence makes something under his skin itch. Porthos must notice he's restless, because he comes and settles next to Aramis, thigh pressing Aramis's shoulder.

 

“Won a couple of livre last night,” Porthos says. “We'll have a good dinner, this evening. None of Serge's boring meat and potatoes. Plenty of wine. Gravy. Let's go to the Goose, eh?”

 

Aramis nods, flicking through the bible, unable to settle on any verse. He's read them all before and nothing grips him. He gets up, standing with Porthos, instead, leaving his book on the floor. Porthos gives him a grin and nudges him, but lets him be. When he looks back at Athos and d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan is paging through his bible. Aramis's breath catches.

 

“Easy,” Porthos says, hand falling heavy on Aramis's shoulder.

 

“It's not his,” Aramis says, softly, indignant.

 

“He's young. Do you really mind, or are you just jumpy and irritable?”

 

Aramis considers it. He doesn't want d'Artagnan's dirty hands on his book, but he can admit, at least to himself, that it's more about d'Artagnan being here. He shrugs, sullen. Porthos's hand gives his shoulder a squeeze.

 

“Oi, d'Artagnan,” Porthos calls, gently. “Leave the book be.”

 

d'Artagnan puts it back with an apology, and Porthos, Aramis knows, gives him a reassuring smile. Aramis manages not to look angry. He stays with Porthos, keeps his feet. Porthos puts a little distance between them and d'Artagnan. Nothing obvious, but enough for Aramis to relax a little.

 

“My father's secretary wrote,” d'Artagnan says, and he sounds miserable.

 

“How's the farm?” Athos asks.

 

“It's holding. He sent me money,” d'Artagnan says, then he takes an audibly shaking breath. “My father came here to petition the king about taxes. I wrote a letter, but I'm... I'm not my father. They're still collecting taxes. More than anyone can pay.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Athos says.

 

“I should go home. Or do something here. But I find myself incapable of doing either,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“You are allowed to do as you please. You owe no one. Do not make yourself miserable in the name of duty,” Athos says.

 

“Perhaps you're right. Is it alright for me to be here? Are you on guard?”

 

“Just Porthos.”

 

“Am I... I should go. Do something useful with myself.”

 

“You can't,” Porthos calls. “If you go, you might miss dinner. My treat, we're doing it fancy.”

 

“I can fend for myself,” d'Artagnan says, sounding torn between his wounded pride and his amusement at Porthos being Porthos.

 

“We're all for one and one for all, here,” Porthos says, grinning widely. “My money won't last forever, and I just heard you say you got some in the post. That sounds like a good deal to me.”

 

“Is he asking me for money?” d'Artagnan asks Athos, half laughing.

 

“He is inviting you,” Athos says, gravely. “One for all and all for one, we three live by that. Thick and thin, good and bad. Drunk and sober.”

 

“Oh,” d'Artagnan says. “Is he... is he allowed?”

 

“Just come for dinner,” Athos says.

 

“Well. Alright.”

 

Aramis sighs and elbows Porthos in the ribs, but Porthos just smiles at him.

 

Aramis gets used to d'Artagnan's presence, and it stops making him itch. He's on guard the day he notices this. He had got used to the restlessness, whenever d'Artagnan joined him up here on duty. He suddenly realises he's entirely content, physically and mentally, and it startles him. He looks over to where d'Artagnan is sprawled, napping in the sun under Porthos's hat, Porthos sitting with him and reading. Porthos notices him looking and smiles, nudging d'Artagnan's leg. d'Artagnan raises Porthos's hat to look, then waves lazily, smiling too.

 

“Did you know,” d'Artagnan says, after they've brought Porthos up out of the Court of Miracles, “that Porthos can pick pockets? He promised to teach me. He's going to show me how to pick a lock, too.”

 

Aramis looks at d'Artagnan for a long time, then he looks over to Porthos. Porthos is, for once, sitting in the corner of the tavern, hunched, his cloak and hat hiding him from people's prying eyes. He's taking Athos's habit of drinking silently and alone. He's watching d'Artagnan though, a strange mix of regret and wonder twisting his face. Aramis realises he never asked Porthos about it before. Never asked him about his skills, about what it was like. Never dared. Porthos offers things, sometimes. Small pieces of it. But they don't ask.

 

“Should I have not asked him anything?” d'Artagnan says, worried by Aramis's silence.

 

“No, it's fine. He'd have told you to bugger off himself, if he didn't want to talk. I'm sure it's fine. I just never thought to ask. We sometimes make jokes about him having light fingers, I never thought he actually did. Beyond, you know, youthful desperation.”

 

“He was a professional thief before he joined the army,” d'Artagnan says, with a certain amount of respect.

 

“Don't go getting ideas,” Aramis says. “He wouldn't go back to that. I know that much.”

 

“I like it fine right where I am,” d'Artagnan says. “You know, I never heard him sing again. Not properly, not since that first time. I assumed it was something he'd learnt as a child, maybe as a choir boy. But not in the Court.”

 

“If the question buried in there is do I know where he learnt, the answer is no. I don't know.”

 

Aramis keeps to himself that he didn't know Porthos sung at all, let alone where he knew it from. He looks at d'Artagnan speculatively.

 

“I could ask him,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“I wouldn't, if I were you. It's not something he advertises.”

 

“He doesn't advertise his ability to pick pockets, either.”

 

“No, but he's perfectly open about his quick fingers. I knew he could get through a locked door, though he usually just-” Aramis uses his hand to demonstrate the way Porthos barrels through whatever's in his way, and d'Artagnan laughs. “You know, you're sneakier than you let on.”

 

“Me?” d'Artagnan says, smiling.

 

“Yes. You worm things out of people. My secrets about Marsac, about Savoy. Athos's, about whatever happened at that house. Porthos's, about the Court.”

 

“Right place, right time. Or wrong place, wrong time,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“No. It's not just that. You're too curious by half, and we seem to be indulging you, to a man.”

 

“What are we indulging young d'Artagnan in now?” Athos asks, appearing at Aramis's elbow, wine skin in hand. “Is one of us drinking with Porthos, or are we leaving him be?”

 

“We've both sat with him a bit,” Aramis says. “You could go drink in silence with him, he'd like that. We're too noisy, I think.”

 

Athos slips away, joining Porthos in the corner, and d'Artagnan and Aramis turn to the tavern, to entertain in Porthos's place. They end up duelling in the street and nearly getting arrested, but it's a good night, all in all. They meander together through the streets, both a little drunk, heading for the garrison.

 

“I came the wrong way,” d'Artagnan wails, when they walk into the yard.

 

“You can sleep here tonight,” Aramis says. “Let's see if Athos and Porthos are back yet.”

 

They head to Athos's rooms, first, and find Porthos asleep on the floor, Athos's thigh acting as pillow. Aramis sits by Porthos's feet and takes those into his lap, and d'Artagnan goes to sit shoulder to shoulder with Athos. They all wake up incredibly stiff and feeling the effects of the wine. Porthos sticks his head in Athos's barrel, and d'Artagnan copies him, then yells about how cold it is and how mad they all are.

 

“I never do that,” Aramis says, with dignity, then ruins it by giggling.

 

It's not until almost a week later that he finally finds out about Porthos's singing. He's in the yard, rubbing his horse down, everyone else busy or drinking or out on a hunt with the king. There are maybe three people manning the garrison, due to various things that converged at one time. Old Florian is up on Treville's balcony, and Serge is somewhere making something boring out of potatoes for dinner, but that's pretty much it.

 

Aramis clicks his tongue at the horse and then freezes. Someone is inside, someone he hasn't marked. It's worrying, for a moment, but then he remembers Porthos is supposed to have a day off and is probably wandering about looking for entertainment, and Aramis relaxes. He runs a comb over a flank, and then pauses again, listening. Porthos seems to have stilled, but he's humming. Aramis smiles.

 

Then Porthos starts to sing, quiet at first. Aramis stops to listen, leaning on the horse, still smiling. The smile drops as Porthos switches from a song Aramis is familiar with from the tavern, to Airs de Cour, also familiar. Aramis can't make out which it is Porthos is singing, but Porthos gets into it, lifting his voice, light but rich, a surprising tenor.

 

Athos and d'Artagnan come into the yard, together, and Aramis shushes them quickly, beckoning them over. They stand in a line, listening to Porthos. d'Artagnan was right. It's beautiful. The notes fall easily, navigating the quick, lilting changes with skill. Porthos's voice carries wonderfully, and soon the yard is full of him. Aramis closes his eyes and just listens. He's shocked when the music stops, eyes snapping open. Porthos is stood before them.

 

“Oh, hullo,” Aramis says. “We just got here. Seconds ago. Milliseconds.”

 

“Yeah right,” Porthos says.

 

“You sing so well,” d'Artagnan says, smiling, ignoring the anger simmering beneath Porthos's skin. “Aramis won't tell me where you learnt it.”

 

Porthos turns his glare on Aramis, but Aramis just shrugs. Athos pushes through them and claps Porthos on the shoulder.

 

“We've been let off duty early,” he says. “Aramis is supposed to be on this evening, but...?”

 

“I got Amyot to cover. He's paying off a debt,” Aramis says, shrugging again.

 

“Then, let us go and find some entertainment,” Athos says.

 

They wander through Paris, but when d'Artagnan tries to go into a tavern, Porthos shakes his head and leads them in a different direction. He takes them to a big church, and they sit in the pews. Porthos sings. None of them dare say anything, or ask questions. Porthos is showing them, trusting them. They just listen.


End file.
